The Dark Mage Strikes Back - Part II

The Trial of Knight and Squire

May 24, 2025

Lucan rode alone, cloak pulled tight, snowmelt creeping beneath his collar. The River Shannon wound beside him—silver and silent—its banks lined with frost-bitten reeds and ancient cairns.

Brother Bennán had once spoken of Clonmacnoise—a haven for scribes and dreamers, where words held more weight than weapons.

But when Lucan arrived, he found no towers. No lights.

Only fog.

It thickened quickly, swallowing the path, his breath, even the sound of hoofbeats. The world narrowed to silence.

A twig snapped behind him.

He turned, sword drawn.

“Away with your weapon!” a voice croaked.

A figure emerged—small, stooped, draped in a robe more patch than cloth. His stick trembled. Moss hung from his hair like seaweed, and his eyes glimmered with green mischief.

“I mean no harm,” he said. “Seek who you do?”

Lucan hesitated. “I’m looking for a monk. A teacher.”

The old man tapped his chest. “Then found him, you have.”

Jonah’s Lessons

The hermit called himself Jonah.

He lived in a half-buried chamber beneath a yew grove. Scrolls bound in bark and stitched with sinew lined the walls. Light came from lichen. Heat from memory.

Jonah taught without teaching. He listened more than he spoke. Lucan learned to still his sword-hand and open his mind. To shape stories not with steel, but with silence and trust.

“Magic,” Jonah said once, as fireflies swirled above a bog, “is meaning. Not power. Paint with words the story mage does. Truth and beauty he spells. When facing dark magic, do this you will.”

“I doubt I’m ready to face the Dark Mage,” Lucan sighed.

“No!” the old man snapped. “Speak, or speak not. The truth knows no doubt.”

Lucan’s skill grew. But so did his dreams—fog, fire, a face in ice.

The Hollow Tree

One dawn, Jonah led Lucan to a dead yew with a hollow trunk.

“Enter,” the hermit said. “Face what you bring.”

Inside, all was root and rot.

A shadow moved.

The Dark Mage stepped from the black. They clashed—not with swords, but with stories. Silver and golden threads of truth wove around Lucan, clashing with the Mage’s purple fog of lies. Lucan shaped his tale; the Mage rewrote it mid-air.

Illusions shattered. Roots cracked. Lucan was flung through memory and nightmare.

Finally, he struck.

The hood fell.

And it was his own face—twisted and burned.

Lucan stumbled out, trembling.

“It wasn’t real,” he muttered.

“But it might be,” said Jonah.

The Master’s Master

The Dark Mage raised his hand. His company stopped at a frozen spring.

He knelt.

Jets of water rose like fingers, intertwining, freezing mid-air into a glimmering sculpture—a translucent figure, robed and faceless, watching.

The Mage bowed low. “What is thy bidding, Master?”

“I felt a disturbance,” the voice said, cold and without breath. “The knight’s son became a squire—as you foresaw. But his path diverges. His sword is lowered. His spirit rises. He has become a threat. He could destroy us.”

“He could be turned,” the Mage replied. “Joined to our story.”

The voice hissed: “We have no control over free spirits.”

“He will come,” the Mage insisted. “I’ve ensured it.”

Silence.

Then: “Can it be done?”

The Mage’s gaze didn’t waver. “He will kneel.”

“Or die.”

The frozen sculpture shattered. The spring flowed again.

The Caves of the Sleeping Beast

Hanric and Sister Lira rattled up the mountain trail. The wagon’s wheels skidded on wet stone. Mist rolled in like waves.

Behind them, hooves still echoed.

They found a cleft in the rock. A narrow tunnel. Cold breath wafted from its depths.

“Do we dare?” Lira asked.

Hanric looked behind. “Better the unknown than the certain.”

They led the horses inside, the cart groaning.

The tunnel widened. A distant wind hummed like a heartbeat. Walls gleamed damp and unnatural.

They stopped in a vast chamber. Bread was unwrapped. Water shared. Lira prayed.

Then the earth groaned.

The floor rose—no, pulsed.

Hanric dropped the flask.

The walls behind them cracked open, revealing rows of stony ridges—ribs.

“This isn’t a cave,” Lira breathed. “It’s a carcass.”

The beast stirred.

Hanric shouted. Lira scrambled onto the cart. They lashed the reins. The tunnel mouth began to close—lined now with teeth of living stone.

They burst into daylight just before it sealed shut behind them.

Above the Clouds

The mountain’s summit vanished into mist. On its peak, timber walkways and rope bridges clung to the rock like a nest in the clouds.

At the gate stood a man in furs and too many rings.

“Hanric?” he blinked. “You’re a monk now? Never would’ve guessed—after what you pulled. You’ve got a lot of guts.”

“Still breathing,” Hanric muttered.

The man grinned and embraced him. “Good to see you.”

To Lira, he bowed with theatrical reverence. “And you, sister. A grace to these heights. Name’s Landon. Come in.”

She smiled politely.

Landon led them to the great hall. “My watchers told me you were coming. I prepared a feast. Everyone’s waiting.”

Hanric brooded. Lira leaned in. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

He nodded.

Too late.

The doors opened.

The Dark Mage rose from the far end of the table.

“We would be honored,” he said, “if you would join us.”

Hanric reached for his quill—

It flew across the room into the Mage’s waiting hand.

The Frozen Offering

Lucan woke gasping.

Not a dream. A pull. Cold. Familiar.

He saw the mountaintop, the dining hall, Sister Lira—crying. Brother Hanric, bound. A pool of glacial water.

He ran to Jonah. “They have him.”

“You see a thread,” Jonah said. “Not the whole weave.”

“I can’t leave them.”

“You must choose: finish the story you’re becoming—or chase the one you fear.”

Lucan left before dawn.

In a chamber beneath the mountaintop, Hanric hung suspended over a basin of icy water.

“This is not punishment,” said the Dark Mage. “It is an invitation.”

Lira struggled against her captors. “You’ll never break him.”

“I don’t need to,” he replied. “The boy will come. All he needs is the right moment.”

The chains groaned.

Hanric was lowered into the water.

Frost bloomed. Ice climbed his legs, chest, jaw.

Lira cried out. “God loves you,” she whispered.

“I know,” he mouthed.

The last breath clouded inside the crystal.

The Mage raised him out—encased in shimmering ice.

An assistant touched the surface. “Alive.”

“Good,” said the Mage. “Let him be found.”

The Duel

Lucan reached the summit, breath ragged. He searched.

He passed empty huts, snow-carved silence, drifting echoes.

Then—on a ledge above the clouds—he saw the figure waiting.

The Dark Mage.

Lucan approached slowly, blade sheathed.

“I won’t fight you,” he said.

“But you came armed,” the Mage smiled.

“I came to find my friends.”

“They’re safe. For now.”

Lucan raised a hand—sigils whispered beneath his breath. The wind stirred.

They circled. The Mage summoned illusions. Lucan unraveled them—thread by thread, truth beating lie.

“You have much of your father in you,” the Mage said.

Lucan’s jaw clenched. “You killed him.”

“No.”

He pulled back his hood.

The face was burned, broken—and familiar.

“I am your father.”

Lucan staggered.

“You were born of story. Of fire and shadow. You belong to this tale. With me, you could shape its end.”

Lucan looked down. Mist swirled far below.

“I’d rather fall than follow you.”

And he leapt.

The Spark Remains

The cart rattled down the mountainside, hay spilling behind.

Landon drove, silent for once. Regret lined his face.

“I didn’t know they’d take it that far,” he said.

Lira didn’t answer. She sat hunched beside him, one arm wrapped around her ribs.

Then—from the cart bed—a thump.

A figure in the hay. Shivering. Coated in frost.

Lucan.

Lira gasped. She scrambled into the back, cradling his head. “Lucan? It’s me. You’re safe.”

His eyes fluttered open. “Hanric…”

“He’s alive,” she said gently. “But frozen. We don’t know where they’ve taken him.”

Lucan tried to sit, winced. His arm was cut. His cloak torn. His spirit frayed.

That night, by the fire, Lira cleaned his wounds.

“You were brave,” she whispered.

Lucan stared into the flames. “We need to find him.”

“You’ll need help,” she said.

Landon tossed another log on the fire. “You’ve got it.”

Lucan nodded.

“We’ll bring him back. I swear it.”

Above them, the stars turned.

And far away, beside a frozen spring, the Dark Mage pressed one gloved hand to the ice.

The face of his master shimmered once more.

The tale was not over.

Read part 1 of this story here: